


If my roommate doesn’t stop talking I swear I will commit murder

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bisexual Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Fast Burn (Medium Rare), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: A roommate AU, in which Geralt is a sheltered war veteran with PTSD and Jaskier is a bubbly aspiring actor/musician. They don’t get along very well, until they do.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 361





	If my roommate doesn’t stop talking I swear I will commit murder

**Author's Note:**

> Self-doubt: You can’t write a slow burn in 4k words.  
> Me: Watch me.

London was expensive and the rent was crazy. When he was stationed overseas, Geralt’s army salary paid for a flat in Southwark where he hardly ever stayed. But now that he was back permanently, he was struggling. He was free from his contract, but not from the demons that came with it. He had a hard time keeping a job – it turned out nobody wanted to hire a scary looking man who sometimes stopped talking and got that weird look in his eye whenever a door slammed unexpectedly. 

His army pension was decent enough, but not to continue affording the flat he currently rented. His shrink had stressed the importance of stability and human contact, and suggested he looked for a roommate. Despite hating the idea of sharing anything with anyone, he posted an ad, because it seemed less bothersome than flat hunting anyway.

The first few people who came visit were taken aback by his brutish appearance, it seemed, or by the bareness of the flat. They all (more or less) politely declined. 

And now the last candidate for the day was late. Geralt was already annoyed, and he hadn’t even met them. They signed their email with a weird “Jaskier”. What sort of name was that? 

The doorbell was broken, so he was sitting on the stairs to the building, in the dark because of the late hour. He heard Jaskier before he even saw him, whistling a little tune down the road, his steps light and unhurried. Oh Geralt was hating him already. 

He reached the stairs and pressed the broken doorbell, yelping when it sparked. 

“You’re late,” Geralt said, and he stood up with a sigh.

“Dear me!” Jaskier exclaimed. He clutched the front of his shirt, in a mockery of alarm. His very open and very purple shirt. “I like how you sit there and brood,” he added playfully.

He held out his hand but took it back when Geralt made no move to shake it. He had a guitar case on his back, and no watch on his wrist – figures. 

“Are you a musician?” Geralt asked, despite the obvious. It surely wasn’t a good match, and he made no effort to hide his hostility. 

“I’m an actor,” he corrected. “Jaskier is my stage name.”

“Flat is upstairs,” Geralt mumbled, and he unlocked the front door.

“… of Rivia, is that your name, or where you’re from?” Jaskier prattled as they got up the stairs.

He didn’t get an answer and didn’t seem to mind. He looked everywhere inside, even if there wasn’t much to see. The flat was very bare, no unneeded furniture or decoration. 

“Are you a monk? Did you escape a cult?”

That second hypothesis wasn’t far from the truth, Geralt thought. He grunted something about the military, and Jaskier nodded as if he knew anything about it. 

Geralt made coffee while Jaskier was checking cell phone reception in the spare room – not looking at the terrible view, the peeling wall paper or the suspicious stains on the off white ceiling.

He came out seemingly happy and jumped on the kitchen counter. Geralt raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Sitting on furniture not meant for it was weird, but Jaskier was the first candidate not excusing themselves after two minutes in his presence. Instead, the bubbly artist was relaxed and spoke to him freely, saying stupid, annoying things.

“The rent is crazy in this part of town, and this flat is gorgeous.”

It wasn’t. There was probably asbestos in the walls and the only windows were overlooking the nearby tracks. 

“So, do you have a spare?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Keys? I’ll bring my stuff tomorrow, if that’s okay with you?” Jaskier concluded. 

He was apparently certain Geralt would agree to have him as a roommate, while Geralt was too dumbfounded to protest. 

*

“I’ll hardly ever be home anyway,” Jaskier had assured him at the end of the visit. “You won’t even know I’m here.” 

But it turned out he was in between jobs, and auditioning meant a lot of phone calls, music and agitation in the flat.

Geralt was half expecting him to fail paying his part of the rent at the end of the week, thinking that would be his chance to kick him out. But he had the money in time, nice and crisp bills, looking fresh out of a cash machine.

Jaskier seemed to live on air and instant noodles, so Geralt cornered him one evening to clarify the matter.

“Where did you get the money? You never work.”

It sounded rude to his own ears, but he was too curious and suspicious to let it slide. Jaskier smiled and didn’t seem to mind.

“I could ask you the same question,” he replied. 

Geralt knew he had seen his medal, hidden in his room – he knew Jaskier had sneaked around on the rare occasions he was out. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to confront him about it. That would have meant talking about his time in the army, and he’d rather avoid it.

“My mother feels bad about my dad kicking me out,” Jaskier said with a shrug. “She sends me money as an apology.” 

Geralt wasn’t expecting him to be a disgrace to a rich conservative family, but it sort of made sense. He briefly wondered what the reason was, and just looking at his comedian of a roommate, sitting on the kitchen counter and licking sauce off his fingers, in his too tight jeans and his too bright shirt, he could think of so many reasons. 

* 

They mostly kept to themselves, but sometimes, Jaskier would plop on the couch in the shared living room, startling Geralt – “You know I could strangle you when you do that?”. Then he’d ask way too personal questions, or just talk about that new play he didn’t get a role in.

“Why is your hair white?” Jaskier asked this time, eyeing Geralt’s long hair as if he wanted to touch it – a good way to get a broken wrist. “Is it a fashion statement?” he insisted. 

“Is yours?” Geralt slyly replied, and Jaskier raised a hand to tame his unruly brown hair.

“You should go out more. Are you a vampire? Is it a sun allergy like those kids who can catch sunburns from the moonlight?”

Geralt wondered what sort of weird documentary Jaskier had spent all night watching. 

“Hmm,” he replied.

PTSD was hard to explain. Sometimes when he went outside, he saw the faces of the men he killed, everywhere in the crowd. That wasn’t an experience he enjoyed. 

*

One morning, Jaskier came home with a strangely shaped guitar case. He quickly retreated to his room, with a nod to Geralt, who was already anxious about this new instrument.

He stayed in his room a long time, and it became too quiet for comfort. Geralt found that he couldn’t concentrate – he was writing boring emails in which he tried to justify the ever growing gaps in his resume to potential employers. If he put his ear to the wall, he could hear very faint music, as if coming from tiny speakers.

Then the actual playing started, and he no longer needed to eavesdrop. The notes were tentative and shaky, the melody something Geralt couldn’t place.

Around noon, Jaskier emerged from his room with a bright smile and a ridiculous feathered hat. He was holding a strange wood instrument with a bent neck. 

“What the fuck is that?” Geralt wondered out loud, unsure he was speaking about the attire or the instrument.

“It’s a lute, Geralt.”

“What are you auditioning for? A court jester?” he mocked, not even trying to hide the disbelief in his voice.

“Like you care,” Jaskier said and he pretended to be hurt for a second.

Geralt had learned quickly that actors, even aspiring ones, had no sense of ridicule – or maybe that was just Jaskier. Geralt could say anything he wanted, it never seemed to faze him. And so Geralt was doing his best to appear hostile most of the time – he couldn’t help it, being nice meant pulling people too close, and he couldn’t allow that. But Jaskier was somehow immune to it.

“Care to listen?” Jaskier offered. “It’s a work in progress, mind you, but I’d love to have your opinion.” 

And Geralt couldn’t understand why someone like Jaskier could value the opinion of someone like him. He shrugged, not even sure of his answer, and Jaskier took it as a yes. 

He played, some ditty about women, and it was both inappropriate and very alluring somehow. He was quite expressive, acting with his whole body, and he ended the short song with a deep bow. His silly hat fell to the floor but Jaskier simply retrieved it and put it back on with a flourish. 

“So? What do you think?” he asked with a toothy smile, so eager to hear the thoughts of a virtual stranger.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, at a loss for words. “Good luck for the audition?” 

“That’s the spirit!” Jaskier beamed.

*

The first time in weeks Geralt got out of the flat – an unsuccessful job interview - and he came back to a fist fight in the corridor. Jaskier was getting roughed up by a hunk of a man twice his size in front of their door. A punch to the eye dazed him, and suddenly the burly man had him by the neck and was shaking him like he weighed nothing.

Geralt heard snippets of conversation, something about a girlfriend Jaskier stole – as if women were property… Oh no, Geralt thought. A womanizer. Those were the worst, always thinking with their dick and getting into unbelievable situations because of it.

Jaskier croaked but he couldn’t really defend himself, pinned against the wall as he was. His feet scrapped uselessly, trying to find purchase. The idiot looked like he was choking now, eyes frantic and nails scratching at the hands around his throat.

Geralt saw red, literally, and military training took over. Next thing he knew, he had the attacker in a choke hold, arm twisted behind his back. Jaskier was sputtering, hunched on all fours and trying to draw a breath.

“Get out,” Geralt growled into the man’s ear. “Get very far and hope I never see you again.” 

Then he released him with a shove towards the stairs. For a second he looked like he was going to argue, his eyes on Jaskier, but Geralt took a single step in his direction that sent him running for good.

Jaskier rasped something that sounded like a joke. Geralt grabbed the back of his jacket and hauled him to his feet, ignoring his sounds of protest. He got him inside the flat and shut the door behind them, still reeling from his sudden outburst.

“What was that about?” he asked Jaskier, who had let himself fall on the couch with a dramatic sigh. 

“Why did you hide from me how strong you were!” Jaskier exclaimed, his voice still a little strained.

He rubbed at his throat and looked at Geralt with a wild look in his blue eyes. And it left Geralt speechless – well more than usual – because he was not expecting that. There was an admiration he didn’t feel worthy of, in those eyes.

“Don’t bring your problems home,” Geralt warned.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Jaskier muttered. “She said she was single, how could I know her ex was a psycho?”

Geralt softened after that. He fixed some tea and fetched a pack of frozen peas, because Jaskier was starting to look black and blue and he didn’t like it. He should have been happy: a damaged throat meant no weird singing in and out of the shower, no inane chatter when he was trying to think. But it felt wrong – and there was still the danger of some inarticulate whining, so Geralt wasn’t taking any chances.

Jaskier accepted the help, looking both surprised and grateful. Almost like he was used to getting roughed up on his way home, but not to someone showing him some concern.

*

It seemed like Jaskier was always coming back home with clothes that weren’t his, and trinkets he didn’t need. Things that surely belonged to the costume room of a historical production. Was he stealing props from sets? Geralt couldn’t tell. He kept the clothes a day or two, then they vanished, back to their rightful owner, or sold online, he didn’t know.

Some days, it was a medieval coat, red and luxurious, fit for a king and not a giggling idiot, others it was a jacket with puffy sleeves, so blue it made Jaskier’s eyes pop. Most of the time it was just small objects, a heavy ring or a necklace. 

“You’re like a magpie, always stealing stuff,” Geralt commented once. 

“I’m way too colorful to be a magpie,” Jaskier replied and he pretended to be offended.

“You’re annoying and noisy,” Geralt argued.

“It’s mostly lovers’ presents. Sometimes I do borrow things, it’s true, but I always return them!” Jaskier protested.

Geralt didn’t know why, but he hated the way the word “lovers” sounded in Jaskier’s mouth. It made him imagine things he wasn’t proud of, later that night, alone in his bed. 

“So what, you’re having sex in exchange for a part or something?” he asked, none too gently. 

“Oh no, only because they are pretty,” Jaskier replied with a shrug.

Jaskier was a grown man – despite his childish demeanor – and he was free to sleep around, Geralt reasoned. But it didn’t sit well with him. Must be jealousy, he thought, and how it confronted him to his own absence of a love life. He just wasn’t ready, he kept telling himself – not worthy, a monster, a brute, a killer, a little voice added.

At least Jaskier had the decency to do it elsewhere. He never brought a girl to the flat, never talked about his supposedly numerous conquests, if the number of “presents” was any indication.

*

“Where did you get that?” Geralt asked one afternoon as he got out of his room. He was suddenly worried that his dreams were starting to merge with reality.

“There is an ice cream parlor down the street,” Jaskier said, before licking his fingers where the ice had melted on them.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a front for a gang,” he continued. “But I don’t care if they’re criminals as long as the ice cream is good.” 

Geralt didn’t argue, but he made a mental note to go check it out – maybe to be sure they weren’t living close to a crime den, but also maybe to buy a cone. 

“The possibility of violence is just part of the ice cream experience,” Jaskier concluded, as he lapped at it enthusiastically.

And if he ever found it strange that Geralt immediately went back to his room, he didn’t say anything.

* 

It started with a thunderstorm. The air became electric, the sky darkened, and Geralt grew restless and anxious. He wasn’t scared of the storm, of course, but of the violent reactions it sometimes provoked and which he could hardly control.

To make matters worse, it was the first time he wouldn’t have an audience since that fateful day when he lost his last job. Jaskier had decided against going out at the last minute when the rain started coming down in sheets. Of course, Geralt could have holed up in his room and tried to block the memories, hoping his roommate wouldn’t barge in as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

But instead of leaving him alone, Jaskier offered to cook, and asked for Geralt’s help. He didn’t know exactly how it happened, but suddenly Geralt had a whisk in his hand and eggs in the other, and apparently they were making a cake?

“My new play is really crazy,” Jaskier was saying. “My character has all those action sequences, it’s going to be awesome.” 

So Jaskier had landed a role after all, good for him. Geralt tried to open his mouth to congratulate him – or merely acknowledge the fact that he was listening – but thunder cracked just above the building, shaking the windows and rattling Geralt to his very core.

His shrink had patiently explained that the sound probably reminded him of the battlefield, and that it triggered a flight or fight response. He realized that he was gripping the edge of the table, cake long forgotten. Jaskier was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Lightning flashed again, and he braced himself for the inevitable assault of noise that would follow.

Jaskier wordlessly took the whisk from his lax fingers and pushed him ever so slightly to have access to the table and finish the simple task Geralt was unable to complete. What a pathetic soldier he made, cowering in fear because of a little bout of bad weather. It was ridiculous.

At least he hadn’t punched anything or anyone – yet. 

“You should stay away from me,” he tried to tell Jaskier.

It would have been safer to just push him out of reach and lock himself up. This whole cooking thing was a bad idea. And yet he found that he couldn’t move, and he watched Jaskier’s steady hand quickly beat the eggs white, with a rhythmic noise, predictable and regular. 

Then Jaskier tried to drown the storm out with chatter – about his play, about a friend who was an escape artist, about the cake and what he’d do when the rain stopped. It was soothing, mind-numbing even. Was he doing it on purpose? Geralt wasn’t even sure.

They managed to follow the instructions on Jaskier’s phone, standing very close and very still, Jaskier a human crutch to Geralt’s broken mind. 

“Can you put it in the oven?” Jaskier asked, wiping his hands on his thighs. “I need to charge my phone.”

It was a simple task, really, but everything was going all too well, and Geralt should have known he would just end up ruining it. Thunder boomed just as he pushed the cake tin into the oven. He jerked, touched the hot metal door and swore as the whole cake batter slid sideways and fell to the ground. He punched a cupboard door and let the pain ground him.

When Jaskier came back without his phone, Geralt still hadn’t moved from his crouch on the ground. It felt like kneeling next to a fallen soldier, and the comparison made him shudder.

“Oh,” Jaskier said.

Then he nudged Geralt and sat on the floor with him, away from the cake and close to Geralt. 

“Why are you not afraid?” he whispered, more to himself than to Jaskier.

“Of the storm? Uh because I’m not five,” the actor said, but he didn’t sound unkind and his eyes looked worried.

“Of me,” Geralt said.

“How could I?” Jaskier exclaimed. “You saved me from that freakishly strong bloke. You’re a good listener, even when I’m clearly annoying. Your wiring is just a little faulty, but you’re not to blame,” he concluded, taking Geralt’s burned and bruised hand and turning it over, making sure there were no splinters.

“I can’t do even the simplest things. I ruined your cake.” Geralt growled.

“That’s depression, my dear,” Jaskier said.

It hurt because it was the truth, but there was no mockery in his voice, no malice in his eyes, as he patted his shoulder lightly. 

* 

On a warm afternoon, Geralt was on his way back from a meeting that sounded promising – night security guard in a warehouse; they were looking for someone reliable and scary-looking, and they seemed to like his military background. At least he wouldn’t be in contact with customers. So his spirits were up, for once, until he heard shouts and a scuffle farther down the street. His street. 

Of course it was Jaskier, because it always was. The man was a trouble magnet, always at the wrong place, screwing the wrong person or saying the wrong thing. 

Jaskier who was currently getting assaulted by a furious woman on the steps leading to their building door. She was hitting him with open hands, angry slaps that made a formidable noise. Jaskier was trying to guard his face, and he was clearly not retaliating. That was stupid, Geralt thought.

He stepped up and cleared his throat, hoping to use his height and bulk as a deterrent. The woman was having none of it; she closed her fist and caught Jaskier in the eye. Then she spat something about him being a liar and a cheater, and finally relented, not even sparing a glance to Geralt as she left.

“What was that about?” he asked, not that he particularly cared about the details of Jaskier’s love life, but he didn’t think he was one to disrespect women to the point of eliciting such a reaction. Whatever he did to that lady must have been bad.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at him, as if the answer was terribly obvious and he was a little surprised Geralt didn’t know.

“I’m bi, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbled, turning his back to him and marching back to the flat.

“Bye?” Geralt asked, confused. 

“Yes, you oaf, bi.” 

“I…” Geralt started, a bit shaken.

He was used to Jaskier now, he was even starting to like his eccentric brand of dumbness, and the prospect of having to look for a new roommate all over again was just too much. 

They reached their floor, and Geralt finally said, “Just leave the keys on the kitchen counter and don’t bother with this week’s rent,” just as Jaskier said, “I slept with her boyfriend, okay?” 

“What?”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m bisexual,” Jaskier said. “I swing both ways,” he continued, “I…” 

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Geralt interrupted angrily.

He didn’t need a picture, he had enough in his mind’s eye already.

“I’d rather not leave,” Jaskier finally said, in a tiny voice so unlike himself.

Then he brushed past him to go inside. Geralt stayed frozen by the door.

It took a long moment before either of them spoke again. Jaskier was nursing a new black eye, his face frozen in a frown. The swelling looked bad, but not worse than the other times. He really should stop hooking up with married people.

“You should stop hooking up,” Geralt said with an angry look. Shit, that wasn’t what he meant.

“And what do you propose I do instead?” Jaskier asked with a coy smile on his battered face. 

“You know what I mean,” Geralt said with an exasperated sigh. He was too out of his depth to have this conversation and he knew it. 

“Is that why your parents kicked you out?” he asked instead.

“Hmm,” Jaskier said, stealing his line for once. “Actually, no. They wanted me to go to law school, I used all the money to enroll in acting classes instead.” 

“You would have made a great lawyer,” Geralt said, thinking out loud. “Speaking your way through bullshit, sugar coating everything with your sweet words.” 

“You think my words are sweet? Wait, did you get replaced by a not-so-evil twin? Because the Geralt I know hates my guts and can’t stand my, and I quote, jabbering for more than ten minutes.”

“As would any sane person.” 

“Ouch, that hurt.” Jaskier slid closer on the couch, until their thighs touched.

“Are you sure?” Geralt said. “I’m screwed up, I’m not…”

But he never finished his self-deprecating sentence because Jaskier turned and kissed him softly. 

*

It was early and light was still scarce. They were lying in bed together, and Jaskier was gently tracing his fingers across Geralt’s face, feather like touches. He had a serious expression Geralt couldn’t place, with a little fleeting smile. Geralt hoped he wasn’t regretting anything, because he seriously didn’t want another roommate now.

So he asked, “What are you doing?” 

Jaskier’s fingers stilled, but he didn’t move his hand away. Instead he cupped Geralt’s face, looked into his eyes and said, “I’m an art major, it’s my job to admire art.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains, in fact, no plot whatsoever. I regret nothing.
> 
> I blame a friend for the whole roommate idea. The ice cream comment was taken from an actual conversation. The end is from a [tumblr post](https://g-a-y-b-a-c-o-n.tumblr.com/post/621246672316596224/when-jaskier-and-geralt-are-lying-in-bed-together).


End file.
